Empêchement
by of-dreamers-and-detectives
Summary: An unexpected detour during Sherlock's "death" sets his life on a path he never could have foreseen . . .
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock Holmes did not believe in ghosts. He did not believe in souls, angels, gods, demons, folk legends, religions, or myths of any kind. But if he were inclined to allow himself to indulge in the fanciful for a moment (which he decided was _not_ ), it would not take a great stretch of the imagination to picture himself as a vengeful spirit, a dark shadow stalking the streets of Milan to bring down the tormentors and wrong-doers of the living. He always did love a touch of the dramatic.

It was certainly better than hiding out in disgrace, this cat-and-mouse game of hunting out the remaining threads in Moriarty's network. The spider may be dead, but the web remained, and some of the strands were surprisingly strong. The veins of Moriarty's network were more widespread than Sherlock had ever imagined during life, and the more he uncovered the more arose from the shadows. It seemed that no areas of crime were untouched by the late mastermind, no corruptions too despicable or eccentric or perilous. Stolen artifacts in Venice, drug trafficking in Brussels, money laundering of all sorts from Paris to Vegas to Mendoza, and those were only the beginning. Some of which were news even to Mycroft; Sherlock had found he needed surprisingly little direction from the elder Holmes, since each piece of corruption uncovered seemed to lead to others. It seemed as if he could spend the rest of his life hunting down the pieces of Moriarty's puzzle and never find them all. It was exhilarating, dangerous, challenging, solitary. And occasionally bloody.

Sherlock found no enjoyment in murder, no matter how despicable the villain, but if necessary it was an inconvenience he was willing to carry out. He had seen so many killings in his line of work that it was not a great difficulty to perform one himself. So far, only one had been necessary, and even that one had not been foreseen; an unexpected encounter in an alleyway after his quarry had gotten wind of being searched out, the quick flash of a knife and understanding that death was imminent for at least one of them. Not that Sherlock felt any remorse at the man's death; even if his own life had not been in danger, this was not a man who brought benefit to the world by any means. In general, however, the criminals he was tasked to find had plenty of enemies of their own who were more than happy to carry out a murder or two. All Sherlock had to do was acquire the appropriate information, the right secrets, maneuver them and reveal them to whomever necessary in order to bring about arrests or killings that would effectively end the careers of his targets. This was more of a challenge, took more planning and finesse, and in general was more _fun_ than murder anyway.

Paolo Bortoletto, however, was an exception. Wily and ruthless, he had intimate connections with prominent names in political, economic, and criminal circles (many of which, as is often the case, were prominent names in all three). He was widely known not only in Italy, but in cities throughout the European continent, and likely further. His propensity for crime was matched by his skill at distancing himself from its repercussions, despite the depravity of his dealings. Nothing was too vile for his interests; he had quickly graduated to dealings in human trafficking when the transfer of drugs and capital proved too mundane, and all that was left of those who got in his way would be a strategically exhibited corpse to serve as a warning to anyone who thought to follow their example. His criminal activities, however, were known only to those who were deeply involved in such circles already; to the general Italian public, he was a model citizen, a family man with a lovely young wife, two charming daughters, and an adolescent son who was already showing great promise for following in his father's footsteps. His humanitarian activities were widely lauded, and a number of churches and hospitals throughout Italy lavished praise on his name for his selfless donations. It would not be surprising if a number of the corpses he left behind had ended up in a hospital with a wing bearing his name. Despite the allure that such a difficult and multi-faceted challenge held, Sherlock realized that trying to take Bortoletto down using the methods he had on previous targets would be ineffective at best. At worst, he would end up getting himself killed; knowledge was dangerous, and even hinting at knowledge of Bortoletto's shady activities was nothing short of suicide.

This was why Sherlock found himself strolling inconspicuously down a busy sidewalk in an upscale district of Milan on a cloudy autumn afternoon, making his way towards a row of chic flats overlooking a courtyard. He didn't stand out in any way from the shoppers and tourists hurrying home before the coming rain; although his distinctive appearance would seem to be hard to mask, much could be said for hiding in plain sight. His hair was a shade lighter than his natural color, the curls tamed into a sleeker, more modern look. Although he missed his Belstaff, such a warm coat would have seemed out of place in mild weather anyway, so he had settled for a slim-fitting black jacket that reached his thighs. In places nearer London, where his popularity was more widespread, he would have had to resort to contact lenses to mask the blue of his eyes, makeup to darken his pallor, and perhaps even cosmetic measures to change his facial shape, but so far none of that had been necessary. No one noticed him as he made his way through the streets, his fingers brushing the small pistol hidden in his jacket pocket.

When he came to the flat he was looking for, he hesitated a moment, his eyes scanning his surroundings to check for any suspicious onlookers. He was one of a select few who knew Bortoletto was staying here, a short stop on his way to some meeting or other, political or otherwise. Breaking and entering should not be necessary, although Sherlock was willing to take that route; he would simply ring the bell. His last target had, after some rather forceful coercion, revealed that Bortoletto was expecting some sort of shipment from the East, perhaps Russia, and was awaiting further information from an anonymous party who would announce their intention using a codeword. Which Sherlock now had, thanks to the practical implementation of his knowledge of human nerve clusters and painful stimuli.

However, upon glancing at the door, Sherlock discovered that even ringing the bell was unnecessary. It was not only unlocked, but open; just a crack, unnoticeable from the street, but open nonetheless. Sherlock's heart rate kicked up a notch; the game had just gotten much more interesting. Taking one last glance at his surrounding and finding nothing out of place, Sherlock took a steadying breath, gripped his hidden pistol a little tighter, and pushed his way inside the ornate foyer.

Nothing seemed out of place. He closed the door behind him, the background noise of human chatter and busy streets giving way to an eerie silence. Stained-glass windows overlooked the courtyard, but the sky had clouded over to the point that no sunlight penetrated the room, leaving the marble floors and pristine white walls a sickly, ominous hue. The place looked almost uninhabited, which was not unusual considering Bortoletto had only been staying here for the past three days. The only exceptions were a hat hanging on a peg by the door and a light on in the kitchen attached to the foyer. There was an incongruous smell hanging in the air, however, distinctly feminine and strangely familiar, perhaps some type of perfume; it tugged at Sherlock's memory and made him vaguely uncomfortable. A sense of unease settled in the pit of his stomach as he made his way down the adjoining hallway, stepping silently and always ready to pull out his pistol.

It didn't take Sherlock long to find Bortoletto himself, although it hardly mattered; his job had been done for him. The man was dead.

Bortoletto – renowned politician, ostentatious philanthropist, merciless murderer, criminal mastermind – was stark naked, spread-eagled limp and prone on his four-poster silken bed, his arms and legs bound with intricate ropes to each corner. He lay on one cheek at an unnatural angle. A silken red blind fold covered his eyes, and his face had darkened to match it, broken vessels snaking across his cheeks. A thin cord was wrapped around his throat, crushing his windpipe, a few red lacerations standing out against his pale skin. He had not struggled for long; whoever had done this knew what they were doing.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose with distaste. He could not help but feel a bit disappointed in the man; his criminal activity had been despicable, but brilliant and nearly flawless in its own way. He had proven to be the greatest challenge to track down thus far, and to end in such a way . . . . well. At least it made Sherlock's job that much easier. Fitting, in a way; a classic example of how alike all men were in death. Feared by his enemies, capable of ordering the most gruesome deaths without getting his own hands dirty, nearly invulnerable to the consequences of his actions, Bortoletto nonetheless looked quite pathetic in death, pallid and feeble and, quite frankly, ridiculous.

The man had not been dead long, less than an hour. Sherlock could feel the residual heat of his skin even through his gloves, and his limbs were still easily malleable. To whoever found his body, whether it be in an hour or a day, it would appear to be a case of breath play gone wrong, the lover fled in a panic. The details of the death would be glossed over, muttered to the wife by some embarrassed officer with downcast eyes and a regretful tone, and then promptly buried under the rug. Why ruin the memory of a lifetime of benevolence with the sorry circumstances surrounding his death? Politicians were always particularly vulnerable to the allures of the flesh, it seemed. Although, if Sherlock's suspicions were correct, they would find it a bit strange that the perpetrator had left no prints . . . .

Just as these thoughts were forming in his mind, a square of red sitting on the dresser caught Sherlock's eye. He was not surprised to find that the package was familiar; a simple red box, tied shut with an intricate knot of black silk cord. His mouth quirked slightly into a grim smile as he opened it. Nothing but a slip of paper was inside, a few sentences composed in black ink in a delicate female hand.

 _Death is boring. It's all around us now, isn't it? I suppose it's fitting that I can see it from my window, but unlike dear Carlo I would rather devote my time to living. Come find me. Let's have dinner._

Sherlock resisted the temptation to laugh, considering his surroundings, but allowed himself an amused smirk as he slipped the package into his pocket. Forget corrupt politicians and blackmail and criminal networks; the game was on.


	2. Chapter 2

Irene had just arrived at her flat when the storm came, breaking over the cool fall evening as the first stars appeared in the sky. There was something about sudden thunderstorms that made her skin prickle and her body buzz with a nervous energy, as if the electricity in the air were conducting itself through her own nerves. Her edginess had little to do with the unpleasant task she had just carried out; that had been decidedly necessary. Nonetheless she indulged herself in a hot shower, the steaming water burning away the chill that had become embedded in her skin. She had just wrapped herself in a silken robe, allowing her damp hair to fall in locks around her shoulders, when she sensed she was no longer alone in the flat. She smiled to herself; just in time.

Sherlock Holmes was already in her sitting room when she emerged from the hallway. He was sitting cross-legged in her Chesterfield settee, his eyes fixed on the entryway, expectant, his curls tamped down from the rain outside. Looking at him, Irene felt a twinge of . . . _something._ Not pity, exactly, for they would both despise that idea too much to even consider it. But it couldn't be called sorrow either; Sherlock's state should have no bearing on her own well-being after all.

But amongst the familiarity of his face and posture, Irene picked up on small differences, cracks in the façade. It had been over two years since they had last seen each other. Irene could see that at least some of that time had not been kind to him. There was a grey pallor to his skin, beyond its usual paleness. Weight loss had sharpened the hollows of his cheekbones, and his piercing eyes were sunken slightly and ringed with shadow. It struck her that she had somehow expected this; Sherlock Holmes was a creature of London, of cold foggy mornings and grey rivers and afternoon tea. Take him out of his natural environment and he will have to harden and adapt, or else wither away. Although he was perfectly still, he seemed to hum with a nervous, restless energy. He was both familiar and strange, welcome and foreboding. But when he spoke, the dark rumble of his voice was the same as she remembered.

"Still misbehaving, I see."

Irene only smiled in response. She padded over in her bare feet, feeling Sherlock's eyes on her every movement, and settled into the ottoman across from him. She nodded to the glass sitting on the table beside him, a pale liquid glimmering inside.

"You took a nearly a quarter of an hour longer than I thought you would. Your champagne's gone flat."

Sherlock grimaced, taking the glass in his hand and rotating it absently. He did not take a sip. "I stopped to buy some cigarettes. I decided I had time for a little diversion, considering the task I had intended to do was already taken care of." He fixed her with his penetrating gaze, slightly accusatory and yet slightly amused.

"So you found my note then?" Irene purred. "I thought I should let you know where I was, should you have any questions you need answered. Or in case you needed a diversion." She raised an eyebrow but said no more; she would let Sherlock decide whether to interpret her statement as suggestive.

"Yes," Sherlock sighed, "Very amusing. Cimitero Monumentale, one of the two largest cemeteries in Milan, designed by Carlo Maciachini in the nineteenth century and famous for its artistic tombs and sculptures and mixture of Italian and Greek design. Also, conveniently located near a number of affluent flats. Once you informed me of your general location so thoroughly, the specifics were just busy work. I think the more pertinent question here is why you knew _my_ location."

Irene smiled; despite the changes in Sherlock's appearance and circumstances, he was the same arrogant, petulant show-off she remembered. "I have had a rough idea of your movements for a while now. I have certain, let's say, _connections_ myself, and a number of key figures appeared to be disappearing in particularly surprising and violent ways. Figures who take meticulous care of their secrets and personal safety. I found this rather odd. Considering the fact that the beginning of their demises seemed to line up quite nicely with the death of a certain celebrated consulting detective . . . well, it wouldn't take a genius to put two and two together. Their elimination seemed to follow a certain pattern that I found quite intriguing. Once I established that, it simply took a few well-worded questions directed to certain people and . . . " She trailed off, raising an eyebrow and letting him make the final conclusions.

Sherlock scoffed and shook his head. "My my, we have been misbehaving, haven't we? To have connections with a man such as Bortoletto . . . And it was obviously far beyond him being a 'client,' wasn't it? It seems like you must have had some significant grudge against him, judging by the position he's in now."

Irene bristled at that. She was surprised by the poison in Sherlock's voice, even more so by his accusations. Would he really find it so difficult to believe that Irene (perhaps even having some knowledge about Bortoletto's vile crimes herself) would do such a thing _for him_? That she could be trying to help, doing something completely free from her own interests? She noted that he still had not taken a sip from his champagne, and with a pang wondered if he still did not trust her enough to drink from something she had given him.

"If you're suggesting that I had any sort of business with Bortoletto," Irene said venomously, "I suppose I should divest you of your assumptions. I know exactly when and how to misbehave, and I know just as well when not to. If I know _of_ people such as Bortoletto, it signifies no more as to my _misbehaviors_ than your knowledge of him does. The man was despicable, and I was glad to see him die apart from any connections involving my own interests. If his time was coming anyway, which by my observations of _you_ it was, I was delighted to speed up his disposal. He was actively involved in a Russian shipment of a more _organic_ nature, and hopefully his absence will cause this to fall through." She crossed her arms. It's not like she had expected a thank-you, but this open hostility was exhausting.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and said nothing for a moment, although if Irene wasn't mistaken a bit of the suspicion dissipated from his gaze. But he still seemed to be considering something, before settling on his question. "I believe I said _why,_ not _how._ "

Irene started at the directness of his question. She knew what he meant; the _how_ 's of discovering his location would be easy for one as intelligent and resourceful as the late Irene Adler. It was the _why_ 's that would be much more interesting: why she found it necessary to find him again, why she cared that he was alive. She realized that it was the same question she herself had had two years ago, after seeing the sun rise at the end of the night she thought would be her last. And she had never gotten to ask it, directly or otherwise, although she knew he probably wouldn't have answered anyway. What she found interesting was that he found it worthwhile to direct such a question to her, when surely he realized she was no more likely to answer than he was. Or, perhaps, no more likely to even know the full answer.

"I like to have people on my side exactly when I need them, and sometimes, I like to return the favor," Irene said when she realized a hesitation in answering may be more telling than anything. Sherlock's silence was filled with an expectation for more, so she continued, "Besides, I never got to thank you for that little favor in Pakistan. I did try, you know. But it seems like the blue-eyed Western businessman who rented a room at Avari Towers for the evening never returned to enjoy his stay." She allowed her lips to take on a slight pout, and leaned forward to fix him with her gaze. Her robe fell open slightly; she let it. This is where she was most comfortable, this flirtatious provocation, and although she realized that Sherlock could see right through her defenses to any uncomfortable questions she may be trying to avoid, they still gave her a sort of armor that made her feel as if she had the upper hand. Besides, it wasn't like Sherlock wasn't prone to dodging uncomfortable questions himself. "I suppose he had to get back before Big Brother noticed his absence. I do hate having a debt on my accounts, though."

Sherlock's lips twitched with irritation at the mention of Mycroft, and he drummed his fingers against the armrest. His eyes flickered over her, reading her, from the bare unpainted toenails to the parted robe to the tilt of her eyebrows, trying to determine her angle, her aim. He looked so vulnerable then, she realized; annoyed at the mention of his older brother, suspicious of her, trying to decide if he should have come here at all. Why she would have directed him to her. She suddenly realized that she didn't know this herself. When was the last time she had done _anything_ without a clear objective, without a plan from beginning to middle to end to work something to her advantage? The thought made her feel vaguely lost, a swimmer suddenly lost sight of the shore.

And it all came flooding back then, the past two years of running and hiding and building up new identities, finding new purposes and fleeing dangers, the rush and bustle of it all keeping her busy enough to avoid missing what she had lost. But she _did_ miss it: London, misbehaving, being Irene Adler. Being the Whip Hand. Being the Woman. But here was the last person in the world to whom she was still Irene Adler, was still the Woman, and always would be. The only person in her life who knew what it was like to _be somebody_ and then to have that all thrown away, to be a ghost always on the run, to have had everything they had lived for and worked for and loved ripped away from them in an instant. Never mind that, in her case, Sherlock had been largely responsible for that ripping away. That was all part of the game, part of the intricate and occasionally vicious give-and-take between the two of them. All that mattered is that Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler were dead, but they were both here, together against all odds, and she was not about to let that moment slip away, despite the consequences.

She kept her face schooled while these thoughts stormed in her mind, something building in her chest that she did not want to acknowledge. A sense that this was a moment that would not come again. Sherlock watched her intently, suspiciously, and although to anyone else Irene Adler's expression was as cool and composed as always, he saw something there. Something that he could not easily read or respond to, and he did so love having the upper hand.

"Well," he snapped, swiftly rising from his seat and turning in the direction of the door, "I suppose now that we're even, I should be going."

"Wait," Irene fought down the waver in her voice, the indecision pulsing in her mind. "Won't you at least stay and have a drink with me? It's so dreadfully boring here."

"Hmm, yes," Sherlock scoffed, "You seem to have had trouble building up a customer base here. You're just barely getting by." He threw a pointed glance at the designer furniture they had just risen from, at the ornate Persian rug under their feet. Irene's lips quirked into a grin at that.

"Oh, I have plenty of connections to fill up my time," she answered, stepping over to where Sherlock stood. "But none of them are as interesting as talking to a dead man."

Standing beside Sherlock in her bare feet, Irene barely reached his shoulder, but she looked up at him with a piercing gaze that he could not help but return. She could feel the heat from his body through her thin robe, hear his slow intake of breath as he considered her statement, see his ribs expand beneath the black fabric of his jacket, still glittering with raindrops from the storm. He considered her for what seemed like an age, but was really only a few telling seconds, the gears and mechanisms of his mind spinning to decide his next course of action. Irene held her breath and fought the impulse to put a steadying hand on his arm.

Finally, he turned back away from the doorway and squared himself towards Irene. A decision made. He narrowed his eyes at her.

"What do you want from me, Woman?"

"I want you not to be dead," she whispered, and Sherlock's eyes flickered for a reason she didn't entirely understand, "Just for tonight. Then you can go back to whatever it is you're doing that's leaving this trail of bodies in your wake. Just for tonight, _I_ don't want to be dead."

Sherlock's breathing was hoarse, the only sound in the room apart from the rain pattering steadily on the windowpanes. His cool blue eyes bore into her as he clenched and unclenched his fists at his side. "I can't," he murmured, so low that Irene could feel it in the pit of her stomach, "You can't."

"Yes we can," Irene answered softly, "Just for tonight, we can put aside what we have to do." _And who we are,_ she added silently to herself. Because if this were London, and she were Irene Adler and he were Sherlock Holmes, she wouldn't be asking him to stay, and he wouldn't be looking down at her with what looked so much like desire in his eyes.

Sherlock slowly forced his gaze from her own, his eyes focusing on her parted lips, a pale pink rather than her former blood-red. He brought his hand to her face, his palm cupping her chin, his thumb following the path along her lips that his eyes had just taken. There was a slight quiver in his movements, a hesitance in his gaze. Irene longed to reassure him, to tell him it was okay, but instead she let her eyelids float closed and leaned into his touch, parting her lips a little more so that he softly grazed the sensitive flesh within.

Sherlock took a step closer, closing the remaining gap between them so that he had to bow his head to keep his gaze on Irene's upturned face. She felt the heat of his body blazing on her skin through her thin robe, cooled only by the raindrops left on his jacket that soaked through to dampen her flesh. She pressed into him more closely, soft curves against sharp angles and the folds of trouser seams, and firmly gripped his arm, pulling him ever closer, wanting to feel his hands on more than her face. She wanted him everywhere, every way, all at once.

She reached up with her other hand to grab the collar of his shirt, pulling him down further to her level, her lips grazing his ear and reflecting the heat of her own breath back towards her. She heard Sherlock's breath catch momentarily, and his hand moved from her lips to grasp her waist, his other hand caught up around the nape of her neck. His lips finally, tentatively met bare flesh at the sensitive juncture between throat and jaw, eliciting a soft gasp from Irene that seemed to impel him further. He slipped one hand beneath the hem of her robe, first encountering the smooth soft flesh of her waist, then slowly grazing up over the faint outlines of her ribs until it came to rest softly below the curve of her right breast. He hesitated there, until Irene rested her own hand over his, gently urging him forwards as her lips sucked lightly at his ear. His fingers lightly explored the sensitive flesh there, tracing the contours of her shape, committing the details of every line and texture to memory. Her nipple tightened as he caressed her with his fingers, so soft and slim and dexterous, punctuated by the coarse textures of small calluses at the tips from years of plucking at violin strings. His movements were slow and exploratory, coming back to revisit the places where Irene's breath catches noticeably, leaving again to explore new areas and reactions.

When his hand finally rests on her thigh, his other leaving the nape of her neck to also caress the bare skin beneath her robe, Irene can no longer stand the tension building in her core. She gives a breathy whimper and presses her lips to his. He is unyielding, hesitant, for only an instant, until the delicate use of tongue and teeth coaxes his lips into motion, responding with a fervency Irene had not expected. He tastes of salt and rain and the traces of tobacco from earlier. She gasps into his mouth as he presses her against the wall, the full length of his body flush to hers, his hand leaving her hip to bury itself roughly in the hair behind her ear. His knee presses hard into her inner thigh, and she closes her legs around him, prompting him to grasp her by the hips and pull her upwards until she is wrapped around his waist, back pressed against the wall. His fingers dig into the soft flesh of her bare thighs beneath the robe, deliciously painful; she vaguely tries to recall the last time a lover left bruises on her rather than the other way around, and fails. His body, which seemed so dangerously close and intimate only a moment before, now seems impossibly covered, clothing an irritating obstacle. Without breaking the kiss, she digs her fingers beneath the fabric of his damp jacket, pushing it over his shoulders until he is momentarily forced to release her from his embrace, letting it fall off of his arms into a soft heap at his feet. Before he clutches her again, he roughly grasps at the robe that is now hanging limp and open at Irene's elbows, tearing it off the rest of the way so that it joins his jacket on the floor. Irene is completely exposed now; just as she was when they first met, she reflects as she smiles into Sherlock's lips. Quite unfair, that, considering Sherlock is currently fully clothed, minus one rain-soaked jacket. She would have to remedy that.

Sherlock lets out a small huff of dismay as Irene breaks the kiss, and as she reaches for the top button of his dress shirt, she lets her head fall back slightly to look up into his eyes. They are glazed and heavy-lidded, the pupils dilated so that they are surrounded by only a pale blue-gray ring. She is sure hers look similar. His cheeks are flushed, bright spots of color high on his cheekbones standing out against the ashen pallor of his skin, his pale delicate lips parted and slightly swollen. His hair looks almost comical, plastered to his skin from the rain in some places, wild and unruly from Irene's fingers in others. He, Irene reflects, has never looked more beautiful.

Although part of Irene could have gazed up at him forever, another, more primal part of her urges her fingers on as she maneuvers the buttons of his shirt. When she bares the pale outline of his collarbone, the elegant V where his throat meets his chest, she plants her lips there, sucking gently on his sensitive skin. He, in turn, brings his mouth to her ear and bites gently, his sharp intake of air cold on her cheek when she gently rolls her hips against him. He presses more firmly into her, until the pressure of the wall on her back is almost painful, and she can feel every inch of him, every muscle and sinew under his warm skin taut. She is down to the fourth button now, far enough to slip one hand inside and wrap it around his thin shoulder blade, her fingers tingling as they trace dips and valleys of scars old and new. She continues unbuttoning his shirt with her other hand (she has had enough practice to do this with two fingers), until she finally reaches the juncture where his shirt is tucked into his trousers. Here she slips her other hand underneath, teasingly caressing the flesh above his beltline without freeing his shirt from where it is pinned. She smiles wickedly when she feels goose bumps prickle his flesh, despite the heat emanating from both of them.

When she goes to untuck his shirt from his trousers, however, Sherlock releases her from his grasp, and she finds herself on newly unstable legs. She feels his hands hard on her shoulders, pushing her gently but firmly upwards and away from him and into the wall behind her. She releases Sherlock's shirt from her fingers as he slowly runs his hands down her bare arms, this time leaving prickles behind his path on her own skin, until he reaches her wrists and wraps his long fingers tightly around them, pinning her against the wall. She bites back a gasp as he bends down to bring his mouth to her stomach, warm lips parting to plant a delicate, lingering kiss low on her abdomen. Heat burns through her core as she watches him, her view little more than his head of wild dark curls, as he makes a trail with his lips to the apex of her hip, and then down to her thigh, deliciously and torturously slow. Irene rests her head back against the wall and lets her eyelids drift closed, reveling in the sensations, the only sounds in the room her own ragged breathing and the rain pattering with increasing urgency against the windows. She can feel Sherlock's breath more than hear it, hot against her inner thigh, his lips exploring every inch of her. When his mouth meets the delicate crease between thigh and pelvis, Irene whimpers softly, tearing her right hand from his grasp to bury it in his curls, fingernails digging sharply into his scalp. She knows he is inexperienced, and perhaps it shows in the slowness of his explorations of her. Then again, perhaps his leisurely pace is deliberately designed to frustrate her, to bring her to the edge of her body's endurance; this latter option seems more likely, Irene reflects, as a soft touch of Sherlock's tongue causes the muscles in her thighs and abdomen to tense and ripple. She lets out a soft strangled cry, and forces herself to give Sherlock's hair a rough tug to bring him back up to her level; there was no way she was going to allow him to unravel her so thoroughly, when she herself had not yet succeeded in even undressing him.

She pulls him up so that they are face-to-face, his eyes shining and face more flushed than before. She kisses him again, more lingeringly this time, tasting herself on his tongue, leisurely sliding her hands once again down the front of his body to remove his shirt. She succeeds in tugging the fabric loose from his trousers, but when she does so, Sherlock breaks the kiss and pulls slightly away, hesitant. She sees something in his eyes as they dart from her face to focus on her hands, and something in the way he then moves to grasp her hips, stopping the actions of her hands, gives her pause. Something's wrong; his movements are more forced now, analytical rather than instinctual, and she can sense his uneasiness. She casts him a questioning glance, but his eyes are focused elsewhere, looking but not really seeing. She eases her arms out of his embrace to finally remove his shirt, watching his face as she does, and seeing the anxiety flicker there, the muscles beneath her fingers tense ever so slightly.

She leans into the warmth of his bare torso, running her nails lightly down the pale, smooth skin and watching how the muscles ripple beneath it. Her eyes catch them, then, although Sherlock moves quickly enough in wrapping his arms around her that it is only for an instant; pale dots of scars pattern his inner arms, dispersed with fresher, more recent bruises. She's seen these marks plenty of times to know what they indicate, and although she is slightly caught off-guard, she could not really consider herself surprised. His manic energy, his disdain of social norms, his (sometimes morbid) curiosity; drug experimentation would come naturally to him. She could imagine his extreme fluctuations in disposition being tempered by the use of such substances. And yet something tugs at her then, the thought of him turning to these substances now, alone and vulnerable, away from John and London and, well, b _eing Sherlock._ That made it different somehow, made it more personal, more desperate than the experimental use of his past. More of a _weakness_ , she knew he would believe.

But she wants _this,_ she wants _him,_ open and vulnerable and hiding nothing before her. She has bared enough of her heart already, her desires, by simply inviting him here, by seeking him out and revealing herself when she could have simply let him go. She _should_ have let him go. She was angry, then; a burn of irritation flashed through her. Why should she open herself up to him, only to have him conceal what parts of himself he found undesirable? Why did he have to hide, why did he feel like he had to always have the upper hand, to be invulnerable to mistakes and desires and feelings? To being _human?_

She wanted _all_ of him. Not just the brilliant mind and clever wit and infallible authority he presented to the rest of the world. Everyone else could have that. She wanted _this,_ this open vulnerability, this truth in his bareness. She wanted to run her fingers along the tracks on his arms, follow the paths of the scars snaking along his back and flecked across his torso, read the stories they had to tell. Know not just who he was to the rest of the world, but who he _had_ been, and who he was to himself.

" _Look at me!_ " she hissed. The tone of demand in her voice was so firm, so full of the command of the late Irene Adler, the dominatrix that could bring a nation to its knees, that Sherlock could not help but obey her. He tipped his head back enough to meet her eyes, his own flashing with defiance. She stares back unblinking, placing her fingertips against the flesh above his waistband, running her nails lightly along his skin. She runs one hand up his side, feeling the muscles beneath the warm skin respond to her touch, as she undoes the buttons of his trousers with the other. He does not break eye contact, but his fingers dig more firmly into her hip with each movement, his breathing shallow and ragged. When she reaches for his arm, however, and gently caresses a bruise with her thumb, he flinches away sharply, his eyes narrowing, with anger or suspicion she cannot tell.

He _still_ doesn't trust her, Irene realizes bitterly. He may finally believe that she means him no harm, that she is not part of some intricate plan on the side of his enemies, but that was not the only type of trust she desired. He did not trust her with his weaknesses, with seeing through his infallibility. He had seen her at her weakest, when all of her plans had fallen through and she was left with nothing and nobody, and yet he wouldn't trust her with this small acknowledgement of his own humanity, his own imperfection. It made Irene not only frustrated, but angry. She had lowered her defenses enough to seek him out in her hiding, had hoped that there was now something to bring them together. Their old lives were gone, their facades along with them; why did he feel that he had to be so alone in the world, that he could confide in no one, even someone who was in such a similar situation to his own?

Sherlock's eyes flicker when Irene reaches out and grabs his arm in defiance, pulling him even closer into her. Her eyes search his face to gauge his reaction; surprise, for an instant, frustration, suspicion. And, perhaps, a bit of hurt.

It is then that Irene realizes that, perhaps, this went beyond trust. That he may be interpreting her actions as disdain; did he think she was intentionally trying to make him feel inferior, to humiliate him as she had in front of his brother on that dark jet so many years ago? Did he think this was still about winning?

But before she can respond to her realization, he jerks his arm away again, wrapping it around her waist where she cannot inspect it any further. She tries to meet his eyes, but he avoids her, pulling her in close and bringing his lips to her throat, where he proceeds to plant frantic kisses along her flesh. She recognizes in his movements a certain manic energy, a desperation, as if the actions of the physical could drown out the unease in his own mind, and perhaps make her forget what had just occurred. And it does, for an instant, as the softness of his lips turn into a gentle tug of teeth at her ear, and her gasp of pleasure turns into one of surprise as he grasps her hips and turns her sharply around.

Irene grips the sill of the darkened, rain-streaked window before her as Sherlock wraps his arms around her body, bringing her back pressed flush up against his torso, the cold metal of his undone trouser buttons pressing into the small of her back. His touch is less gentle when he explores her now. She can feel his breath searing into the side of her neck as he presses up against her, one hand caressing her left breast, the other exploring between her thighs. His touch is demanding and yet unhurried, feather-light and rough in turns, returning again to the places which elicit a particularly sharp gasp or strangled moan. Her nails dig into windowsill, leaving gouges in the paint, which she assumes will echo the marks on their flesh by morning.

She knows she should turn around, should tear herself from his embrace and force him to face her, but instead she gives in to his touch. When he reaches up to gently but firmly press her shoulders down, she does not resist, but leans in closer to the window, her body weight supported partly by her grasp on the sill and partly by his other arm wrapped around her torso. When he pins her left hand behind her to the small of her back, she doesn't miss the fact that he can feel her tell-tale pulse flutter under his thumb, but instead focuses on the sensations created by the slow, circular caress of his fingers. When he eases into her, she flinches slightly at the discomfort, feels him still behind her, resuming only when she curls the fingers of her pinned hand around his own wrist in encouragement.

Irene Adler's adult life has been defined by control. Not only in a sexual sense, in the demands of her chosen career and the preferences of her clients, but in the way she shapes the people and events and the very world around her. Every action has a purpose, every word and relation designed to shape the future to fit her desires. And so, if she does not pull away from Sherlock's grasp to face him, if she eases into his will rather than confronting him, it is not in a direct contradiction to her basic nature. Irene Adler recognizes, perhaps better than anyone, that there are different types of control; ways of dominating beyond those involving whips and demands and obedience. She realizes that, in the case of Sherlock Holmes, relinquishing control can be, at the same time, exerting it, that she will perhaps never be more in control than she is now, held firmly in his grasp, witness to his barest emotions.

Besides, if she gives into his embrace a little more than she should, if her gasps and heartbeat are perhaps a bit more telling than she would prefer, does it matter? Here, now, in a darkened flat far from London, where the dominatrix and the consulting detective are nothing more than ghosts?

The rhythm he sets is steady but uncertain, the touch of his hand on her bare stomach gentle but firm. Her calves begin to burn slightly from stretching onto her toes to accommodate their position, but it is a warm, tangible feeling, an exquisite contrast to the pleasure building throughout the rest of her body. She finds herself easing into his grasp as her breathing becomes more hoarse. She notices that his own breathes are muffled, as if he is deliberately listening for her responses, trying to read her emotions and detect every reaction to his movements. She vaguely wonders if there is ever a time when he is _not_ evaluating, not trying to read her and stay one step ahead, but her thoughts are abruptly halted when he brings his hand to the place where their bodies are joined, the pressure causing her breath to catch in her throat. The tension that has been building in her core suddenly uncoils, sending white-hot sparks of sensation branching into every inch of her body, nerve endings lighting up down to the very tips of her fingers. She does not bother to bite back her cry this time, glimpsing the fog burst across the window from her rush of hot breath before she squeezes her eyes shut against the inevitable shudder of sensation. She is barely aware enough to feel his own body convulse shortly following her, his breath hitch involuntarily as he brings his hand up to grasp her shoulder, pressing himself closer.

When it is over, their gasping breaths receding until the rain pounding on the window is once again the only sound in the room, he releases her wrist and wraps both arms around her torso, pulling her upright against him. Irene welcomes the support, her own legs unsteady, and leans into his embrace, his breath hot on her neck, the lashes of his closed eyes tickling her ear. He still does not turn her around to face him.

In fact, she does not see his face again that night. Or for many, many nights afterwards. He does not look at her as he leads her to the ottoman, does not meet her eyes when they curl together, her back pressed to his chest. His grasp is firm, almost insistent, as if begging her to stay as she is and not turn around. And she doesn't, even though she knows she should. She lets him hold her there, lost in his own thoughts and turmoils, and doesn't attempt to lead him out of them. She is too tired, too overwhelmed, and knows he wouldn't let her if she tried.

Irene recognizes that his embrace speaks more of desperation than tenderness. She thinks back to the few times they have touched in the past. In her flat in Belgravia, her hand on his shoulder received with a quick, suspicious glance; justified, perhaps, with the needle in his other arm in the very next moment. In Baker Street on the night of her betrayal, a tender cradle of her wrist before the fireplace: nothing more than a tool for deduction, she would find later, a convenient way to measure her response and deduce her intentions. In Mycroft's study, his touch mimicking her own as he mercilessly reveals her greatest mistake. For Sherlock Holmes, touch was out of necessity, not indulgence, and his grasp is closer to that of a drowning man than a lover.

She knows he'll be gone in the morning, but she doesn't try to fight off the sleep that gradually overcomes her. She couldn't make him stay if she tried. She wonders then if she could ever reach him, wonders if this is the closest she'll ever be to seeing _him_ , but knows in her heart that he has already closed himself off to her. That the moment had passed when he pulled his arm from her grasp. Better to let him hold her, to feel his ribs expand and contract against her back, to feel his warmth seeping into her and casting a sleepy glow over her flesh, than to push him away again by trying to dig too deep.

She knows he isn't asleep, that his brain is still buzzing as much as it was when he first arrived at her doorstep. She imagines she can feel the energy of his mind humming behind her, that she can hear his thoughts if she just listens closely enough. There is one point in the night, when she is so close to sleep she will later wonder if it was a dream, that she hears his voice in her ear, a simple "I –" that fades off into silence. She holds her breath for a while, wondering if he will continue, knowing he won't. The time for discussion had passed. She will never know what he had contemplated saying, so many possibilities held in that simple, short sound, drawn out in a breathy whisper. An explanation, an excuse, a confession? An apology? The beginning of her name? The speculation is the last thing on her mind when she finally falls asleep; it mixes with her dreams that night; it continues to haunt her for the lonely months to come.

21


End file.
